


Bang Bang

by calvinahobbes



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-11
Updated: 2010-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 14:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calvinahobbes/pseuds/calvinahobbes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gemma and Tara go to a shooting range. No spoilers for season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bang Bang

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Bechdel Test Comment-Fic-A-Thon](http://penny-lane-42.livejournal.com/164912.html). Prompt by sotto_voice.

Tara is slowly coming out of her morning stupor. Jax is already out, and Neeta took the baby with her to the grocery store. Tara blames her late-night shift for not even hearing the car pull up, jumping a foot in her seat when the door opens and Gemma strides in like she owns the place. Tara wonders for a moment whether there's time to drown herself in the coffee cup.

"Come on, let's go," Gemma says, like it's the final sentence in a long, involved explanation of why she's in Tara's kitchen at 9 AM on a Tuesday.

Tara takes another sip of coffee, so she won't say any of the hundred snippy things running through her head, _Good morning to you, too, Gemma. I'm sorry; I missed the part where you asked nicely. Maybe if you told me where we're going first._

Gemma is unfazed. Gemma is largely unfazed by everything, including obstinate daughters-in-law. She stands there for another few seconds with her hands on her hip and her mouth arranged in the familiar disapproving slant. "Jesus Christ, are you even conscious?" she sneers. Tara serves her a glare over the rim of her cup. "Come on, princess, we got places to be." She turns and strides back to the door, grabbing Tara's coat on the way. Tara sighs and gets up. She pours the last dregs down the sink and puts the cup by faucet, dragging her feet as much as she dares.

"Bring your gun!" Gemma calls from the door.

Tara freezes, frowns. Her Tuesday morning just took an even more unpleasant turn.

*

Tara has no idea what to expect. It's become a familiar state of being lately, suspended in apprehension and disbelief like a fly in a web. The further out of town they get, the more nervous she becomes. For all she knows this is the day Gemma decided Tara isn't worthy of Jax or SAMCRO, and they're going someplace private where she can dig her own grave.

When they pull into the dusty rag-tag cluster of buildings proclaiming CARL'_ SHO_TIN' R_NGE in rotting wooden letters, once painted white and now clinging to the sign with the aid of a few rusty nails, her nerves don't exactly let up.

In seconds Gemma's out of the car and halfway across the gravel, calling, "Move it, doc!" A fat, dirty-looking man in a wife beater and a blue cap is exiting the main building. He gives Gemma a respectful nod hello, and then nods even more emphatically in reply. He points at the big range with a sweeping gesture and nods again. Gemma says something more, looking regal and glamorous in her big sunglasses and high-heeled boots.

Tara gets out of the car and pops the trunk. Looks like it's safe for now. When Gemma crosses back to her, she gives a wry smile. "Luanne gave me hell for shooting up CaraCara's parking lot. Better not get on her bad side." She takes her purse and heads to the range. The owner, Carl presumably, is busy herding a couple of guys away towards a farther-off range that looks even more rickety. Tara thinks it must be nice to have everyone jump for you like that.

Gemma stands behind her once they get to the range. Tara places the gun in front of her, pulls out the box of cartridges, pauses. "Go on, you know how," Gemma says, and she sounds kinder suddenly, patient. Tara loads the gun, clicks off the safety, and points at the black silhouette down-range. Her heart rate picks up. It feels different from last time. Maybe it's the dark person-shape that adds another dimension to it, another kind of intent. "Aim for the body," Gemma says. Tara breathes in. Breathes out, squeezes the trigger.

She forgot how deafening the noise is, how the recoil burns through her arms and shoulders. She gasps. "Wide," Gemma remarks dryly. "Remember to brace for the recoil. Want earmuffs?" Tara nods. Gemma briskly places a couple on her head. "Again. Breathe and squeeze. Spread your legs." Tara adjusts her stance, her grip, takes a breath. She can feel Gemma behind her like a radiance of heat, just far enough away that they aren't touching, but close enough that her presence is known. It's comforting. Tara pulls the trigger, and the paper target flutters briefly when the bullet goes through.

" _That's_ it!" Gemma crows. She steps aside, picks up her own gun, sights quickly, and puts a shot clean through her own target's heart area. Tara gawks. Gemma grins at her, a big, Cheshire-cat-that-got-the-cream grin, and says, "Gotta practice to be as fierce as me, darling."

Tara smirks. "Oh yeah? Move over, granma. I'm about to kick your ass."


End file.
